


Succulent

by FinAmour



Series: 221(B)oyfriends [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring John, Clueless Sherlock, First Kiss, Flirtatious John, Fluff, Flustered Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Screaming into the pillow, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock: stressed but well dressed, Smitten Sherlock, We stan one very clueless boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25139824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: “You look nice tonight,” John says, and it all goes downhill from there.***Now complete***
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: 221(B)oyfriends [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896241
Comments: 195
Kudos: 687





	1. Sunsets

“You look nice tonight,” John says, and it all goes downhill from there.   
  
“Pardon?” Sherlock is appropriately perplexed, and his throat is suddenly drier than the Sahara.

He peeks down at the clothes he’s currently wearing. Nothing out of the ordinary; a silk shirt and grey slacks, impeccable and neatly-pressed. He’s fairly certain that his hair is mussed after having clutched it in frustration during his research, and that his five o’clock shadow has reached an eight or a nine. 

And yet, his friend sits in his armchair across from him, gaze unwavering, sapphire eyes twinkling as though he said it on _purpose_. 

John leans forwards to speak again, and Sherlock clings to the futile hope that he doesn’t repeat himself.

“I said that you look quite nice tonight.”

_Quite?_ Sherlock feels light-headed and a bit out of breath. Something stirs deep in his stomach; he prays it’s something he ate.

He then becomes concerned for John’s current state of mind: has he had a bit to drink? Has he finally gone insane, driven to the edge by a life of danger and mystery and adrenaline? Because such compliments aren’t a typical part of their conversational repertoire.

”I don’t understand, John. You’re in my presence constantly. In fact, you’ve been sitting across from me for most of the evening, where I have been well within your sight range. Do I not look the same as always?”

Alarmingly, John moves even closer to the edge of his seat. He regards Sherlock thoughtfully, lips pressed together, crow’s feet creased slightly more than usual. “You always look nice. Perhaps it’s the light of the sunset reflecting off your curls, or the way the buttons of your shirt seem to—”

Sherlock fully vacates himself from the conversation. He feels that intolerable sensation in the pit of his stomach again. And this time, his pain must be apparent, because John immediately falls silent.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he says, leaning steadily backwards to settle into his seat. “Perhaps I overstepped. I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.”

“No need to apologize,” Sherlock assures him. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I suppose I’m just not sure how to respond to such remarks, especially coming from you.”

“Whatever feels natural, I suppose.” John is certainly not exhibiting any signs of intoxication or insanity. “But it’s alright, Sherlock. A response isn’t mandatory.”

Sherlock drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Thank you,” he says abruptly, though he’s not sure why he’s thanking John for giving him such a stomachache.

But he doesn’t wonder for long, because John smiles, and his smile is warmer than the sudden heat prickling at Sherlock’s ears.

“You’re welcome.”

“Perhaps don’t do it again, though,” Sherlock suggests.

The earnest smile on John’s face fades to an impish grin. “Of course. Whatever you like.”

Sherlock tears his eyes away and urgently dives back into his task, though he’s unable to immediately recall what the task was. What he _does_ recall, with an unnerving clarity, is the puzzling way John stared as he evaluated every inch of him. It causes an acute physiological response in Sherlock that isn’t entirely familiar—nor entirely unpleasant. As he squirms in his seat, he briefly wonders whether he ought to wear this particular shirt more often.


	2. Stumbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're touching me," Sherlock observes.
> 
> “Oh. Does it bother you?”
> 
> “No,” Sherlock answers, surprising himself.

The two of them continue to sit in silence. Time passes. Perhaps an hour; perhaps four or five. It’s difficult to measure time when one is making a concerted effort to tune out John Watson—especially when he continues to be so very _there_ in his very John Watson way, a great deal more distracting than is reasonable.

Sherlock carefully closes his book and retrieves his phone to check the time. It’s been twenty minutes. His grip tightens. It’s fine. He opens up his texting app to type a message.

Good evening. -SH  
Sent ✓

John is annoying. -SH  
Sent ✓

He had the audacity to tell me I look _quite_ nice tonight, and then ogled me for a prolonged period of time. -SH  
Sent ✓

On and off, I feel his eyes, paralysing me as though he’s some snake-headed she-devil. Do you suppose he’s plotting my death? -SH  
Sent ✓

Sherlock stares blankly at his screen, waiting for a response that doesn’t come.

“You alright, Sherlock?”

John’s voice startles him so much that he drops his phone. “What? Why?”

“Sorry. You just seem agitated. Bit worrisome, is all.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock bends over to retrieve his phone, deliberately not meeting his eyes. “Just saw some disturbing news about...” he pauses, desperately trying to recall any news article he’s scrolled past recently. “About dung beetles.”

“Dung beetles.” The laughter in John’s response is tiresome. “You were reading about dung beetles?”

“Yes, I—told you it was disturbing.”

“Sounds like it.” John knows that he’s lying—something he makes no attempt to hide.

At last, Sherlock gives in. Yielding to the losing battle, he raises his head to meet John’s gaze. It can’t be helped, really—his eyes (cerulean eyes, with tiny flecks of gold) are like magnets to his own. 

John says nothing further; he only looks back expectantly. Sherlock, for the first time, realises just how lovely those bright blue magnets are, and that perhaps he might _like_ being held in place by them—but he can't think about that right now.

Ugh. So why can't he seem to think about anything else?

Sherlock heaves a sigh of frustration, swooping up from his armchair. “Could you stop doing that?” he pleads.

"What am I doing?" John inquires, though his smug visage conveys that he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. 

Sherlock creases his brow petulantly. “That!” He gestures incoherently towards his own face. "The thing with your eyeballs!"

"With my eyeballs." 

“Forget it.” Sherlock drops his arms to his sides. “I’m going to make some tea.”

“Sounds lovely.” John stands, seeming to presume that was an invitation. 

“Wasn’t offering.” Sherlock quickly makes for the other room, because he does _not_ want John following him. But in an unprecedented occurrence, his foot catches on the rug, and he trips, stumbling forwards.

He probably would have broken his beautiful neck if John weren’t there. John, with the reflexes of a soldier and tiny, remarkably strong arms. John, who quickly moves to catch him, spinning his flailing body towards himself for balance. John, whose hands settle protectively onto his hips. John, who doesn’t back away, even when Sherlock expects him to. 

John, who is touching him.

“Careful,” John says. His expression is kind, although Sherlock wishes it weren’t; he would greatly prefer to be mocked for his lack of grace.

"You're touching me," Sherlock observes. 

"Oh." He's still doing it. "Does it bother you?"

"No," Sherlock answers, surprising himself. 

Still doing it.

“Good.” Still. Doing. It.

It’s fine. Sherlock is fine. He just hopes he doesn’t accidentally do something absurd like touch him back. 

He doesn’t want to touch John. But if he wanted to, it would be so easy, and he’s ninety-four percent certain it wouldn’t be terrible. 

John smells nice. 

Then, John reaches up a hand to gently remove something from Sherlock's hair, and that’s also nice.

"Got a bit of dust there," he says.

"Oh." Sherlock freezes. His stomach twists and his throat goes dry. “Mrs. Hudson must have taken too many herbal soothers and forgotten to clean the shelves.”

John chuckles softly, and they stare at each other for far too long. Sherlock becomes dizzy, and he forgets so many words—until he remembers the most important one.

“Tea!” He pulls himself from John’s wicked grasp, shaking off his own apparent hysteria, and darts towards the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll never get tired of writing scenes where Sherlock stumbles and John catches him. This is probably my 89th version of it. It’s just so soft, especially when he touches his hair. 🥺🥺🥺
> 
> Another note: the “she-devil” Sherlock references is Medusa, who in Greek mythology had snakes on her head instead of hair. She was said to turn men to stone by looking at them :)


	3. Scents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock knows he came to the kitchen for a reason, but he can’t recall what it was. He’s certain John will be the death of him in one way or another.

Since they first met, Sherlock has used many marvelous words to describe John Watson. _Observant_ is not one of them. 

In fact, the poor man’s observation skills are so incorrigibly poor that Sherlock frequently wonders if he may be legally blind. Why else would he be following him to the kitchen, even after he made it abundantly clear that he was not at _all_ invited for tea?

Hoping to beat him there, Sherlock executes his characteristic long, graceful strides; John, his characteristic scamper, and yet, remarkably, the smaller man catches up.

“John.” Sherlock butts into him sideways with his shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Kitchen,” John casually responds, not budging.

“But that’s where _I’m_ going.” He side-steps, attempting to maneuver to the front. But somehow, _somehow_ , John slips past him just short of the entryway.

“Ah.” John turns his body to face his, blocking him from proceeding. “Well, considering I pay for half of it, perhaps we can share?”

Sherlock leans into him with all of his weight, whining with displeasure. Yet John still stands there, arms crossed, wearing that dull, arrogant (captivating, charming???) grin on his face.

Sherlock is not the least bit pleased with John’s antics this evening. Although he is severely lacking in the observation department, he is quite gifted at being completely insufferable. He just wants to _scream_ at him for being so childish—but is he willing to stoop to John’s level?   
  
Absolutely. 

He pushes forwards, digging his elbows into John’s chest, trying to wriggle his body past him. But he does. Not. Move.

”John!” he groans dramatically.

“What, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What do you mean, _what_? Move! I need to make tea!”

John unfolds his arms and sets his hands onto his own hips, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. “Have I ever mentioned you’re kind of adorable when you’re angry?”

Sherlock feels his face go beet red, but he doesn’t allow himself to be deterred. Scowling at John, he inhales deeply, summoning all of his strength. He winds back and sprints forward, ramming into the other man with his upper body.

He finally moves. Well, both of them do. John immediately grabs onto Sherlock, pulling him along as they tumble through the entryway. The two of them make loud noises that begin as gasps of shock—but fade into peals of laughter as they fall to the floor.

Amidst the absurdity, it takes Sherlock a full fifteen seconds to realise how they’ve landed. He’s propped onto his elbows and knees, sprawled across John, who lies on his back beneath him, still clutching onto the collar of his shirt. Upon this realisation, Sherlock’s laughter halts abruptly; however, John’s continues.

It’s really quite lovely, his laugh. He laughs with his entire body—this is something Sherlock knows about him, but it’s the first time he’s _felt_ it.

“I suppose I deserved that,” John says as his laughter fades, and Sherlock does not disagree with him. In fact, Sherlock does not do anything. Because John looks up at him, his hair tousled from the fall, and it’s quite distracting. And as they lock eyes, it begins to feel like a fragile moment Sherlock doesn’t want to break. Here, lying on the kitchen floor with John—amongst the dust and the likely remnants of body parts—is something completely new to him, and yet it feels wholly familiar. 

Perhaps what they’re doing is not abnormal, he thinks. John doesn’t appear to be uncomfortable; in fact, everything about his body language implies that he’s quite content. So Sherlock shrugs off his apprehension, allowing his body sink down into his. As he does, his senses feel heightened; his blood seems to move through his body faster than usual. It’s as though touching John both grounds him and gives him superhuman abilities.

His eyes fall closed, and he inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales.

Christ, John smells more incredible than he has any right to. 

“Sherlock.” John finally breaks the silence.

But Sherlock can think of a number of ways that sentence might continue, and seventy-six percent of them are not good. So he decides he ought to speak first.

“You stopped in at the launderette earlier.” His eyes snap open. “After that, you visited the bakery at the corner, where you ordered a cherry tarte. You ate half of it and gave the rest to the stray dog that sits outside of Speedy’s Cafe.”

John is accustomed to his deductions by now—normally, he responds with a sort of neutral fascination. This time is different. A smile tugs at his lips. “You smelled the launderette on me, hmm?”

Sherlock peers back at him, affronted. “Are you suggesting that I’ve resorted to simple olfactory methods to carry out my deductions?” he scoffs.

“No, not in general. But you were smelling me just now. And earlier, in the sitting room. It was kind of obvious.”

Sherlock purses his lips together. Frankly, he doesn’t even care to enjoy John’s heavenly John-scent anymore, so he pushes himself away. 

“Hmph. What else was I to do?” He rises to his feet, holding out a hand to help his friend. “You were standing very close. My nose was practically buried in your hair.” 

John grins and takes his hand, pulling himself up and landing square on his feet. “Is that so?”

He doesn’t let go of Sherlock.

Sherlock swallows. “Yes. Because, you know...” His gaze falls to John’s fingers around his wrist. “Your head is precisely the level at which I can smell your hair. Rather difficult not to. Lavender, by the way. New shampoo? Also, you’re quite short, John.”

John chuckles, shaking his head incredulously. “Every time. You never miss an opportunity make fun of my stature, do you?”

Sherlock has to stifle a laugh himself. “Well. It’s hilarious every time.”

“And yet—“ John's eyes flicker with something raw—something unrecognisable. He raises his brows, biting his bottom lip softly. 

“And yet?” But Sherlock doesn't have a second to predict how he might finish that thought.

John moves swiftly and gracefully. He spins Sherlock’s body around, pressing him into the kitchen counter, and Sherlock succumbs to his movements like a ragdoll. With John’s fingers wrapped around both of his wrists, he moves them to the countertop, lightly pinning them behind his waist.

"And yet, I could still take you," he murmurs playfully against his ear.

The two men stand there, completely still. Sherlock’s jaw trembles as John’s hovers inches from his, their bodies fitting comfortably together from chest to pelvis. 

This. _This_ is unusual. Nothing he’s felt before—especially not with John. But the way his heart beats, fast and irregular, the way John holds him, the hot exhalations on his skin—it’s quite exciting, and he finds himself wanting to give in.

When John releases him, it feels too soon. His mouth reforms into an enormous smile, and he continues as though nothing has happened. “You were right about the launderette.” He turns to walk to the cupboard, leaving Sherlock breathless and stunned. “However, I didn’t go to the bakery this time. In fact, I...”

Blah blah blah blah blah. John continues on about something uninteresting, but Sherlock isn’t listening; he’s got a million other things on his mind at the moment. Of course, the bakery was simply a hypothesis based on John’s known habits. But it doesn’t even register with Sherlock that his assumption was off the mark.

Instead, he watches John closely as he opens the cupboard door, his eyes roaming over his body. It suddenly occurs to him how oddly out of character John’s current attire is. Typically, he looks as though he’s raided his grandfather’s wardrobe—but not now. Right now, the jumper he wears is dark cashmere and quite form-fitting, as are his denim trousers. Hm, yes. Quite form-fitting indeed.

Sherlock knows he came to the kitchen for a reason, but he can’t recall what it was. He’s certain John will be the death of him in one way or another.

Tearing his eyes away, he checks his phone for messages. Still nothing. He screams internally as he begins to type.

It appears that John has suddenly grown fond of touching me. -SH  
Sent ✓

I don’t hate it. -SH  
Sent ✓

He touched my head earlier. Well. It was petting, really. Like one would to a dog. -SH  
Sent ✓

He’s dressed quite strangely as well. I presume he doesn’t want anyone to recognise him while he removes my corpse from the premises. -SH  
Sent ✓

“...and after that,” John concludes, “...I came back to Baker Street. Wine?”

Sherlock peeks over his phone. John stands before him, holding an empty wine glass and a bottle of pauillac.

Sherlock looks at the glass, then to the bottle, and then to John. Then he looks to his phone, to the floor, back to his glass, then to John’s form-fitting trousers, and finally, back to the bottle.

"That's not a Chateau Latour, is it?" 

It is.

John shrugs. "Just something I've had lying around for a bit." 

Sherlock blinks. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

"That must be dinner." John hands him the glass and sets the bottle on the countertop before walking over to answer.

Sherlock’s eyes fall back to his phone. 

John is trying to get me drunk on a two hundred pound bottle of wine. Send help. -SH  
Sent ✓

And then, John returns to the kitchen holding a bag full of food from their favorite Chinese restaurant.

Oh, no. No. He’s pairing it with Chinese takeout. Send more help. -SH  
Sent ✓

“Hungry?” John begins to pull containers of hot food from the bag.

“No.” Sherlock picks up the bottle of wine to pour himself a glass. His stomach growls.

“Mm. When’s the last time you ate?”

“I ate something earlier.” He brings the glass to his lips.

“Earlier when?”

“Earlier...this morning.” He takes another sip. “Or...yesterday. Doesn’t matter.”

John sets out the final container and raises his eyes to him. “You really ought to eat, Sherlock.”

Sherlock regards the miniature buffet lain out before him. “You ordered dim sum,” he notes.

“Yes.”

Sherlock lifts a brow. “You hate dim sum.”

John tilts his head and holds his gaze, smiling slightly. “But you don’t.”

 _Ugh._ Sherlock feels that wretched, knotted sensation in his stomach again. He sighs with defeat. As much as he detests John for being right, he should probably have some food. 

As he steps over to join his friend for dinner, a wave of warmth courses through his body, and he wonders if the wine is already kicking in.


	4. Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew that attention from John could be so addictive? And in true addict form, Sherlock wants every bit of it—which seems to work in his favour, because tonight, John is giving it all to him.

Sherlock doesn't drink wine often, but when he does, the world becomes warmer and fuzzier than the jumper John is wearing. 

Not that Sherlock’s touched it. He's managed to keep his hands to himself. He tries not to think of it—though he does find himself thinking a whole lot about when John was touching _him_. Pushing him playfully against the kitchen counter, murmuring into his ear. Combing his fingers through his hair, holding on to him and not letting go. 

Nothing like that has happened before. It's slightly bewildering. John has touched him, of course, incidentally—a light tap on the shoulder. Tugging at his sleeve. Plucking twigs from his coat lapels after a stakeout in the woods. But never has it lingered. Never has it been deliberate. Never has it been gentle. 

And while nothing beats being on a stakeout with John Watson, what they're doing tonight isn't half bad, either. 

Whatever _this_ is. Sitting together on the sofa in their flat, their conversation flowing as easily as wine from the bottle. Time passes, and they laugh about this and that and this, and Sherlock asks himself why they've never done this before. 

John hasn't taken his eyes off of him for a moment. The fluttering in Sherlock's stomach comes and goes as often as John's gaze lingers. But if John's attention briefly wanders elsewhere, Sherlock instantly finds himself fighting to take it back. Or when John leans forwards to pick up his glass of wine, Sherlock tries to predict, based on John's posture and the relative angle of his arm, whether his elbow will brush up against his leg. And when John opens his mouth to speak, he tries to predict, based on the width of his smile and the depth of his breath, whether he'll tell him again how nice he looks. 

Who knew that attention from John could be so addictive? And in true addict form, Sherlock wants every bit of it. This seems to work in his favour, because tonight, John is giving it all to him.

Yes, there's definitely something in the space between them tonight. Something hypnotic. Something Sherlock can't quite name. But although these abnormalities definitely drove him mad just hours before—he thinks he may actually have come to crave them. At the very least, he's got no interest in fighting it.

But he still can’t find a reason. Why now, John? Why tonight, John? So he just drinks and eats and chats and wonders and wonders and wonders. 

And finally, halfway through a second bottle of wine, the flames of the fireplace flicker in John's eyes, and the question slips from his tongue.

***

The room is silent. 

"You okay?" John asks, his hands in his lap. "You suddenly got quiet."

Sherlock smiles weakly. "It may seem that way to you, but up here—" he points to his temple. "—it's as loud as ever."

"Of course." John flattens his palms over his knees. "So. Care to share what's going on in that beautiful brain of yours?"

"I'm just wondering what on earth has gotten into you tonight."

John looks at him, expression irritatingly neutral. "Not sure what you mean." 

Sherlock gestures broadly towards John's general existence. "Everything." 

"Oh." John picks up his glass and takes a sip. Because he's avoiding the question. Sherlock waits.

John swallows thickly. "...What do you mean, everything?" 

Sherlock tightens his grip on the stem of his wine glass. "Everything! Take, for example, the way you're dressed. It's quite odd."

John looks down at his soft, soft jumper. "You think I look odd?"

"Well, yes. Obviously." Sherlock digs his fingers into the sofa to fight the urge to touch it. "Not bad. Just. Different." 

"So that's all? I suppose I could go ch—”

"And furthermore, today is Saturday!" Sherlock exclaims. "Traditionally, you've spent Saturday nights with your boring girlfriends, presumably to engage in various mating rituals. But it _is_ Saturday; I'm quite sure of it. I've checked my calendar three times. And yet you're here. Why?"

John lifts an eyebrow as he purses his lips together thoughtfully. "Because I want to be?" 

"And earlier!" Sherlock moves to the edge of his seat, giving his friend a sidelong glance. "You complimented me. What is it that you said? I can't seem to recall…" 

"That you look nice tonight?" John's eyes flicker with amusement. 

"Sorry? I didn't hear you, could you say it one more time?" 

"You look very, very nice tonight," John hums. "Would you like for me to keep saying it?"

Sherlock huffs dramatically. "No!" He's sure he's grinning like an idiot. "I mean. You don't typically speak to me in that manner. Ever. And the playful, childish banter? And the touching? Oh, the touching. The petting!"

"Petting?"

"Petting! It's...unusual!" 

"I thought you said it didn't bother you."

"And the audacious manhandling!"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't realise it was—"

"And then you pull out an expensive bottle of wine and buy me dinner?"

"Sherlock."

"Are you trying to kill me, John?!" 

John pauses. Frowns. Watches his expression closely. Frowns again. "...What?"

Sherlock crosses his arms, indignant. 

John breaks into an uproarious fit of laughter. "Kill you? I'm sorry, why—" He sucks in a breath, barely able to speak. "Just...Why?" He wheezes. "Why on earth would you think that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and waves a hand dismissively. "You live a life of danger! You solve crimes with a madman! It's not inconceivable that you would go mad yourself." 

And now, John's doing that thing where he laughs with his entire body, and Sherlock sort of regrets that he's not sitting close enough to feel it this time. "Oh my god. Sherlock, I'm not trying to kill you. I promise. Far from it, in fact. Though I do agree that I may have gone a bit mad." 

Sherlock uncrosses his arms, flopping them down to his sides. "Then I'll ask you one more time. John, what on earth has gotten into you?"

John takes a deep breath and exhales. Shakes his head, repeats Sherlock's name several times. Leans forwards to set his wine back onto the table. Brushes his elbow against Sherlock's knee. Goosebumps. Finally, he looks back over at Sherlock, his expression bewilderingly soft. "You honestly have no idea?"

"Well, yes. My idea was murder. After that, I'm spent." 

John laughs again. 

Ugh. He's too pretty to yell at right now. 

"Forget about it," Sherlock says. "Let's just agree that you're insane and leave it at that." 

"Deal." 

More silence. Sherlock is starting to realise that it's a bit too hot in their flat; his face is flushed and his heart is pumping, and his body feels quite tense. 

And then, John's hand is on his shoulder. "What happened?"

His touch is so electric that Sherlock nearly falls off the sofa. "Mmm?" 

"Your shoulder. You've been rubbing it off and on for the past couple of hours. Are you hurt?"

"Oh," Sherlock says absentmindedly. "I suppose so, yes. Must have pulled a muscle when you dragged me to the kitchen floor." 

"Are you referring to earlier, when you charged towards me like a raging bull and knocked me down?"

"Yes. I mean, no. You started it." 

John chuckles, but only responds by giving Sherlock’s upper arm a light squeeze. Sherlock mourns the days of yore, when he would simply argue back.

"Want me to take a look at it?" John asks.

"Yes." Sherlock's answer comes quickly. "I think...perhaps it could use a doctor's touch." No. Did he actually say that aloud? He wishes he could melt into the sofa. 

But John doesn't seem to mind. He shuffles his body closer to his, and Sherlock holds his breath without meaning to. 

"Let’s see," he says quietly. He slides his fingers delicately over the side of Sherlock's neck, and it sends another jolt of electricity through Sherlock’s body. He applies a bit of pressure there, causing Sherlock to wince in pain. 

“Yeah. You’re definitely a bit tight. I'll see what I can do." He turns to face forwards on the sofa and gestures towards the floor, spreading his knees apart. "Here," he instructs. "Come sit down in front of me."

Sherlock frowns in confusion. "You want me back on the floor?"

"If I'm going to relieve some of the tension, I'll need a better angle to work with." 

Sherlock's eyes fall to the carpet. To John's spread knees. To John's hands. To his form-fitting trousers. Back to the floor. A doctor's touch. It's his own fault, he supposes. Or at least the fault of his treacherous, semi-drunken tongue. 

Well. It's over. If John is going to murder him, now is his chance. But his hands feel so delightful, Sherlock supposes he'll go into it willingly.

John pats his knee in invitation. "You coming?"

"Y-yes." Sherlock is unprepared for how vivid the anticipation is. He slides himself off the sofa and shifts his body to a seated position, shoulders encased by John's knees. 

"There we are,” John says soothingly. "Just relax, alright?"

Sherlock inhales, feeling warmer still. And before he takes another breath, John is touching him again. 

Both hands are on his shoulders, rubbing slow circles with his thumbs, and Sherlock can feel the tension falling away almost instantly. 

"That okay?" John asks.

"Mmh, yes," Sherlock slurs, though that doesn't fully express how _very okay_ it is. "Fantastic."

John's voice rumbles with laughter as he kneads his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulder blades. "Good."

He continues to apply the perfect amount of pressure to Sherlock's biceps, making his way over his shoulders and down his arms bit by bit. Sherlock's eyes drift closed as his surroundings and the knots in his body melt away. John massages his upper back and over his spine, in deliberate, unhurried strokes, and Sherlock releases a rattling sigh; all that's left is the feeling of John’s hands on him and John’s legs around him.

His sighs become low hums of satisfaction as John reaches his lower back, his capable hands pressing against his spine in all of the right places. Sherlock doesn't even know anymore what sounds he's producing; he's too relaxed to care. John appears to be unaffected, remaining every bit as thorough and attentive while his hands make their way back to his shoulders. 

"Christ," Sherlock exhales on a whoosh of air. "You are amazing."

"Glad to be of service," John says, voice a bit husky. "Actually, would you like to lie down on the sofa? It may be more comfortable." 

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "That would be even better." So he pulls himself from the floor, lightheaded and blissed out, and sinks down next to John. 

John turns to face him. "Lie back." 

John has the best ideas. 

Sherlock sprawls out, propping his legs onto the arm of the sofa, eyes drifting closed immediately as his head lolls back into John's lap. 

John's once-deep strokes become soft caresses, sending chills through Sherlock's body. Sherlock simply cannot get enough of this. John’s hands must be magic. For the first time in as long as he can remember, his head feels clear, and so he simply lets himself be. 

Eventually, John's hands drift past Sherlock's shoulders, trickle over his collarbone, and roam to the buttons of his collar. 

"Do you mind if I—?"

"I don't mind," Sherlock responds. Because if John plans to continue touching Sherlock, Sherlock plans to continue letting him. 

John begins undoing his collar in a way that could only be described as sensual; and Sherlock can't curb the low, enthusiastic murmur that comes from his mouth. He undoes another bit of the shirt, and then another, until it’s halfway unbuttoned. 

"That's better," John says, slipping the shirt down over Sherlock's smooth, bare shoulders. 

"Much." Sherlock softly bites his bottom lip with anticipation. 

And if heaven exists, the sensation of John's fingertips on his skin is the closest to heaven Sherlock has ever been. He alternates between deep, skillful strokes and light, gentle ones, grazing over the tops of his shoulders, his chest, and his clavicles. Sherlock notices John's breaths growing heavy and irregular as he finally drifts up to the sides of his neck. Sherlock himself has, at some point, stopped attempting to hold back his long, guttural moans of appreciation, and he realises that his breaths have grown short and unsteady as well. 

But it's not until John combs his fingers through his hair that he begins to truly lose control. They drift over his scalp, tugging lightly at his curls, and it's positively earth-shattering. Sherlock's body twists and turns, and his moans become near-whimpers, and he thinks he might even be saying John's name.

"Jesus, Sherlock." 

Sherlock's eyes flicker open. "Yes?"

"The sounds you're making." 

"Oh." Sherlock swallows. "Sorry." 

John chuckles softly, rubbing small circles at Sherlock's jaw. "No need to be sorry. It's just..." he pauses.

Sherlock tilts his head back to gaze up at him. "Just...what?"

John bends forwards a bit, meeting his eyes. His pupils are wide and dark, and his pulse is pounding wildly. "It's sexy as hell, Sherlock. And very, very distracting." 

Sherlock's breath hitches. He blinks at him. "Whatever noises I'm making are simply a direct result of your touch." 

John's cheeks become flushed at the observation. He spreads his fingers so that his palms cup the sides of Sherlock's face, and he tilts Sherlock’s head slightly back. He moves closer, closer, until his breath tickles Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock does not stop him. 

John pauses. "Do you want to?"

They both breathe heavily. This is a line they've never crossed—but they've come too far, now. Sherlock needs to know what's on the other side. 

"Yes." 

John leans the rest of the way forwards to close the space between them. He brushes their lips together, slides his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock welcomes it, open-mouthed and eager. 

And if John’s hands are magic, his tongue is a fucking marvel. It swirls in and out and around Sherlock's mouth, sweeps over his lips as his fingers skim down his neck and over his bare shoulders. 

Sherlock digs his fingers into the sofa beneath him, fumbling at it, overcome with the need to touch something. Then, he remembers that John is something he can touch, so he raises his arms behind himself, clasping the back of John's head. He pulls him in, pressing him closer until their kiss is deeper than the ocean. 

John's lips are stunningly soft. Sherlock enthusiastically categorises his taste, categorises his scent—even more heavenly when paired with the moans that rumble deep in his throat. It's all overwhelming and insane and wonderful. And though John may be the most unobservant man on the planet, as the kiss becomes more heated, he seems to know exactly what Sherlock wants. He nibbles at his bottom lip, presses his lips to his neck and jawbone, and makes him feel things he didn't know he could feel. A desperate longing he's only heard of, a pulsating beneath his abdomen that his body barely recognises. He never could have guessed how much he needed this—John's mouth on his—god, how could he not have known? If someone had told him three hours ago that he would be kissing his best friend, he wouldn't have believed it for a second. 

That's right. John is kissing Sherlock. Sherlock is kissing John. They're kissing. 

A sudden panic rips through Sherlock. He ends the kiss abruptly, pulling his head from John's lap with a gasp. "John!" 

"Sherlock? What’s the matter?"

Gathering his wits and pulling his shirt back together, he spins on his knees to face the other man. "John," he repeats, his hand over his own mouth. He drops his voice to a furtive whisper. "We're kissing!"

John beams at him. "Yes." He bites his own bottom lip softly, looking up beneath his eyelashes. "A bit."

"But kissing is not something you and I do!" Sherlock hisses. His gaze shifts suddenly. "Kissing _men_ is not something you do. Is it?"

John places a hand beneath his chin, gently taking back his gaze. "Yes. It is. I kiss women, and I kiss men. I kiss whomever I find worth kissing, if they find that I'm worth kissing as well." 

Sherlock looks up at him. Stares at his kiss-swollen mouth. He misses it already. "And I am? Worth kissing, I mean." 

"Absolutely," John says. "I hope I am, too." 

Sherlock circles his arms around him, pinning him back onto the couch. He seals their lips together once more, hoping the message is clear. Somehow, this kiss is different from the first. It's slower, lazier, warmer, steadier. Warm and steady, like John. 

And that is when The Woman decides to text him back. 

This moment, of all moments. It's highly, highly inconvenient. 

Especially when her loud, obnoxious text alert rings out from his pocket and fills the entire room, moaning even more loudly than _they_ do. 

Sherlock rips his lips from John's again. "Oh, god." 

John throws his head back and laughs. "And there's Irene Adler, making an unexpected appearance, something she is uncannily good at." 

Sherlock fumbles for his phone in his pocket and pulls it out. It promptly flies out of his hands and next to John's head, just as a second text alert chimes in. 

"Oh my god," Sherlock groans. "I'm so, so sorry." 

John doesn't stop laughing as he reaches over to pick it up. "Haven’t I shown you how to change her text alert?"

"Yes!" Sherlock grabs it from him. "It keeps changing back for some reason!" He searches for the mute button. 

Another alert, and another, and another.

"Stop!" Sherlock yells at the device. "I’m begging you!" 

"It's alright," John reassures him. "Though I do prefer the sounds _you_ make." 

"There's got to be a button for this," Sherlock sighs. "I can't seem to find—”

"Want me to take a look?"

"Noooo." Sherlock tightens his grasp. John looking at his phone right now could be very, very bad. "I'll just switch it off." 

As he goes for the off switch, Irene's messages await him on the notification menu. 

Are you two snogging yet?  
Received ✓

I doubt he's trying to kill you, though perhaps he could hurt you a tiny bit, wink wink.   
Received ✓

Do you imagine Doctor Watson tops? He gives off some serious top energy, if you ask me.  
Received ✓

Thank God the man has finally removed his head from his arse.  
Received ✓

He's been in love with you forever, hasn’t he?  
Received ✓

Sherlock squints at the final message, resisting the urge to throw his phone again. Oh, no. No, no, no. 

He sighs with deep annoyance, looking back at John. 

"I'm sorry. I should take this. I’ll only be two minutes." He tucks his hand beneath John's chin, planting a firm kiss on his mouth. "Just...don't go anywhere? Please." 

John grins and hums with happiness. "Wouldn't dare." 

Sherlock pulls himself up and dashes to his bedroom, dialing The Woman's number on his way. 

She picks up. "Yes?"

"You're wrong!" He slams the door dramatically behind him. "And you've got terrible timing!" 

"What? Why on earth are you calling me? Go back to your date!"

Sherlock lowers his voice. "It's not a date!" 

Her gasp of excitement is so loud that she almost bursts his eardrums. "You were kissing, weren't you?!" 

Sherlock brings his hand to his mouth; he can still taste John on his lips. "Ermmmmm..." he answers weakly. 

"You are _so_ on a date, Mister Holmes." 

"I am _so_ not, Miss Adler." 

"He's _so_ in love with you."

"Hush! It was only kissing!"

"Yes, which he's doing because he's in love with you." 

"You are incorrect."

"Trust me, darling. I'm a thousand percent correct." 

"No."

"He’s brought his entire game tonight, hasn't he? Desperately trying to woo you. Dressing up, flirting, wine and dinner. Flowers? Are there flowers?"

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaims triumphantly. "There are no flowers!"

"No," she muses. "You're not really the flower type, are you? And I suppose John knows that, since he's in love with you."

"You and I are no longer friends," he tells her.

"Perhaps he'll murder someone for you." 

"He's already done that." 

"He has?"

"Yes. During our first case together." Sherlock feels a blushing heat spread over his face as he remembers that evening. 

"Oh, god. You two are such idiots. It's a match made in heaven." 

"Goodbye." He ends the call abruptly. 

Irene is completely wrong. It’s not a date, and John is not in love with him. 

They're flatmates, and that's it. And after tonight, possibly flatmates who kiss occasionally. John is his best friend—the best friend he's ever had. He can't let that slip away. And if John wants to, he can even be the best friend who touches him a lot, and who maybe allows Sherlock to touch him back. That would be a nice friendship, wouldn't it? 

John would surely not want anything more. He's too busy going out on dates with other people. And although John may care for him, he definitely doesn't have romantic feelings towards him. He's never even brought him flowers. And apparently, flowers are an important step in forming a romantic attachment. 

And _that_ is when he notices it. 

A vase, unobtrusively fixed on the nightstand. He takes a step closer. 

"Blood aeonium," he whispers. A succulent hybrid that he's had an affinity for since the first time he saw it. He's always wanted one for himself, but it's so rare that it only grows at one nursery in the world, and he's never been lucky enough to obtain one.

But who could have known this? And how could they possibly have got it?

He runs his fingers over the cool, rich, blood-red rosettes, clustered over yellow star shapes; it's even more beautiful than he remembers. Even in its plain glass vase, it's breathtaking.

There's a card propped up next to the vase. The envelope reads: _To Sherlock, From John._

Irene's words echo in his head: "not the flower type." 

He picks up the card, gingerly pulling it from the envelope, and he reads it. Then he rereads it. And then he rereads it again. 

After a fourth time, he tucks the card beneath the vase of the succulent. Slumps down into his bed. Admires its beauty for a fair amount of time. Sprawls out, buries his face into his pillow, and screams. 

Once he's had his fill of that, he sends Irene another text message. 

You were right. -SH  
Sent ✓

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The type of succulent in this chapter, Aeonium Blood, actually does exist. As mentioned, it’s a rare cross breed, and there’s only one place that grows it! You can find it on google :)
> 
> Here she is!  
>    
> 


	5. Succulents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You love me,” Sherlock states. Though his voice is timid, the words feel like sweet honey on his tongue. 
> 
> John tilts his head, holding his gaze. “Yes.” A single word, unwavering, yet every bit as sweet.

John loves him.

John. Loves. Him. 

John. Loves him? John? Loves him. He is loved by John.

The words, in any succession, feel like an error.

And even if it’s not—Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with this information. It swirls in his head like a cyclone, picking up pieces of debris in its path: questions such as “why?” and “when?” and “how?”

John seems sure, according to the card lying on Sherlock’s nightstand. But love is a fickle thing, so is he _really?_

Does Sherlock love John, too?

Sherlock doesn’t know. He's not good at knowing such things. How _does_ one know? He’s never been in love with anyone before, nor has he planned for the unlikely possibility. 

Oh, boy. He’s got some thinking to do, hasn’t he? So he weaves his fingers together beneath his chin, closes his eyes, and retreats to his Mind Palace. There, he revisits one afternoon months ago, when he sat in the waiting room of John’s clinic after his phone had died (he was so enthusiastic to share updates on a case that he couldn’t possibly wait until John got home).

With no mobile service and no John, he was left to scour some Cosmo-whatnot magazine. There was an article he skimmed through with the title: _Is it Love?_ It contained useless descriptions such as “you see a future together,” blah blah blah, “united passions, sees you for who you truly are.” Drivel drivel drivel, “makes you laugh, you could spend hours doing nothing with them and have a wonderful time.” Et cetera, et cetera, “their happiness is essential to your own, and it feels as though they are the best person in the world.”

He thought of John then. He thinks of him now. It’s obvious that John Watson is the best person in the world. How could anyone argue otherwise?

The final bit he remembers from the Cosmonaut magazine: “...love is friendship set fire.” Fire? Is that, perhaps, what he felt in his gut when John touched him? A figurative flame, and not simply mild indigestion?

There’s a knock at the door. John’s voice. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock is ejected from his Mind Palace. “Come in.” His voice his hoarse; he wonders how long John’s been waiting. There’s really no way of knowing. It could have been hours. 

John opens the door and peeks in. “Everything okay?”

“Ah, John.” Sherlock’s fingers remain crossed beneath his chin; he doesn’t look up. “You’re still awake?” 

“Yeah. I—” he stammers. “I’ve been waiting on the sofa since you left me there twenty minutes ago. I would have checked on you sooner, but I promised you I wouldn’t go anywhere.”

_Twenty minutes????? What is time???_

“Mm,” Sherlock mumbles.

John takes another step in. “You look a bit...” he pauses. “Perhaps you ought to rest.”

Sherlock seems to have fallen back into the pattern of avoiding John’s gaze. “Probably for the best. I believe I had a bit too much wine.” He senses John sliding the tips of his fingers over his thumb—a habit he displays when he feels a lack of control.

“Alright,” John says. “I’ll be right back with some water and acetaminophen. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“You don’t have to—” Sherlock begins, but John has already slipped out. He rolls his eyes, groans, and covers his face with his hands. Why must John dote on him so?

 _Because he loves you._ Irene’s voice enters his mind again. 

“Shut up,” he replies aloud.

John soon returns to his bedroom with a glass of water and a bottle of medicine. “Who were you talking to?” 

“Nobody.” Sherlock uncovers his face, which John is standing directly over, rascal that he is—and Sherlock can’t _help_ but look directly at him. 

John sets the items on the bedside table. “I’ll leave them here. Get some rest, yeah? See you in the morning.”

A smile tugs at Sherlock’s lips. “It’s half past one. Technically, it’s already morning.”

“Not the point. Go to sleep, you snarky bastard.”

Yes. John loves him, doesn’t he.

“You love me,” Sherlock states. Though his voice is timid, the words feel like sweet honey on his tongue.

John tilts his head, holding his gaze. “Yes.” A single word, unwavering, yet every bit as sweet.

“You’re absolutely certain of that?”

“Yes.”

“How certain, exactly?”

“Extremely certain.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “You saw the gift, then?”

“Yes.”

“And it made you...happy?”

“Yes. Happy. Amongst other things.”

“And you read the card.”

“Yes.”

“...And you’re not sure how to respond.”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean...it’s not a _yes_ or a _no_.” Sherlock’s hands fall back over his face. “It’s an _I don’t know_.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I know you, and I expected this. There’s no hurry. And if you’re never ready to approach the topic, that’s fine as well. We will still be friends, if that’s what you want.”

Sherlock separates his middle and ring fingers, peeking out from between them. “Is that what you’d want?”

“Yes, of course.”

Sherlock uncovers his face completely. “And would you maybe want to be...friends...who kiss sometimes? I’d like that even more.”

John throws his head back and laughs with his entire body in the way that Sherlock really, really likes. “Not sure about that. I suppose I’ll consider it.”

Sherlock nods. “Fair.” 

There’s more silence. But John is still very pretty; John still smells very good. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John turns to leave.   
  
“No. John—” And in what seems to be yet another bout of temporary hysteria, Sherlock’s hand flies out towards his, fingers clinging to the sleeve of his jumper (holy god it’s soft). He tugs at it lightly.

“Stay.”

John halts. “Pardon?”

“Lie down next to me, John.”

John turns back. “Are you certain you want—?”

“Extremely certain.”

Sherlock shuffles his body to the other side of his bed, keeping his hand on John’s and guiding him to the mattress. John doesn’t put up an ounce of resistance.

Sherlock switches off the light on his nightstand and the two men settle in. The room becomes blanketed in silence, dim city lights coming in through the window. They lie on their sides, facing one another, and Sherlock again finds it impossible to look his friend in the eye. 

So he looks at his lips instead. That’s perfectly acceptable, right? Except, of course, for the inevitability of his urge to kiss John, which is inconvenient given the circumstances, especially when John just kisses him back.

It’s their third kiss, yet somehow still different from the first two; it’s chaste, heartfelt, and short. Heartfelt and short, like John. 

Sherlock lays his head back on his pillow. And with John next to him, the cyclone in his brain fades into a light breeze on an autumn afternoon, bright from copper leaves. 

He sleeps.

***

It happened a year ago, perhaps to the very day.

“Blood aeonium.”

The woman in the flower shop nods at Sherlock. “Yes.”

Upon seeing the gorgeous dark red succulent, a flood of nostalgia takes him. “My grandmother had one,” he says. “I’ve always been fond of them.”

John, who stands besides him, leans closer to take a look. “Nice. How much does it cost?”

“Apologies,” she says. “That one isn’t for sale. It’s quite rare, you see. I can put you on a waitlist, but you may not receive it for another year or so.”

Sherlock looks over at John, who looks back at him. They smile fondly at one another, as they often do; as though they’re holding a secret that no one else is privy to. 

“It is rather beautiful,” John acknowledges. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees.

“Awwww. The two of you are just adorable together,” the florist says appreciatively. “Have you set your date?”

John’s eyes shift to her, realisation settling over him. “Oh. No, we aren’t a c—”

Sherlock jabs him in the chest with his elbow. He yelps in pain. “—not sure of the wedding date,” he concludes. His gaze wanders back to the succulent collection. “Though we could use a talented florist.” He grins politely at her. “Do you do such arrangements?”

”Sherlock,” John admonishes him under his breath.

“Hush, dear,” Sherlock responds. 

The woman beams. “I do! I’ll give you my card.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls it out, handing it to John, who takes it warily.

“What wonderful news!” Sherlock grabs John by the arm and squeezes with excitement. 

“Fantastic,” John utters, expression treading somewhere between irritated and amused.

The florist lowers her voice. “Let me know once you set a date,” she says with a wink. “I could probably move you two lovebirds up on the list for the blood aeonium.”

Sherlock’s grip on John tightens. “Did you hear that, darling?” 

“Heard it,” John chuckles. 

“Oh, look at you,” the florist coos. She turns towards John. “He’s so happy. You love him; why not give him everything he wants for your special day?” 

“So happy indeed!” Sherlock bats his eyelashes at John coquettishly. At this point, he’s simply playacting. “If you really love me, John, you’ll get me the beautiful blood succulent!”

Something in John’s expression shifts at that very moment; his smile fades, his jaw becomes tight, and he suddenly seems very, very interested in leaving. He nods towards the florist. “Thank you,” he says. “We’ll be in touch.”

Taking Sherlock by the hand, he urges him to come along, and they make their way back to the flat. He’s uncharacteristically silent for the remainder of the evening.

Sherlock’s memory flashes forwards to tonight, in the kitchen with John. 

“I didn’t go to the bakery this time,” he says, retrieving a bottle of wine from the cupboard. “In fact, I received a call from someone about a special delivery. Something I...you...have been waiting on for quite awhile. So I stopped off on the way home and got it. A bit of a challenge getting it back here, especially without you seeing it. I wanted it to be a surprise, though I guess I’ve spoiled it now. Well, you’ve yet to find it. Anyway, so I hauled the gift onto the tube, and after that, I came back to Baker Street. Wine?”

 _If you love me, you’ll get me the beautiful blood succulent_.

It was a joke on Sherlock’s end, but John took it to heart. 

He must have known it would make Sherlock happy—and his happiness was, and is, essential to John’s own.

Because that’s what love is, right? It would seem so. For that, and countless other things, Sherlock loves him too. 

***

His eyes flutter open. John lies next to him, sleeping peacefully.

“John!” He takes him by the shoulders and shakes him urgently. “Wake up!”

“Nnnnnnngggg?” John croaks, coming to in a daze. “You okay, Sherlock?”

Sherlock leans in until their foreheads are aligned. “I simply wanted to inform you that I love you, too.”

“That makes me happy to hear.”

“It makes me happy to say it. Although my cheeks seem to be strained from smiling so much.”

John laughs, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind Sherlock’s ear. “When did you figure it out?”

“About thirty seconds before I told you. Though, come to think of it, I’m positive I’ve loved you for much longer.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Sherlock hums happily, eyes falling back to John’s lips. “Thank you for the beautiful gift, by the way. It was worth the wait.”

John leans in. “Yes. Well worth it.”

***

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Do you remember the time we visited the flower shop together for a case? You insisted on pretending we were getting married so we could get the blood aeonium._

_Well, apologies on the marriage bit—suppose I’m not quite ready for that._

_But do you recall what you said to me that day? I’ll never forget; because it’s the moment I realised the true nature of my feelings._

_So the following day, I went back and ordered it for you. And here it is. And yes, I really do._

_Yours,  
John _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Follow my writing bot on twitter at @FinAmourBot 🤖


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